Chapter 74

Slowly, Billie walked away from Jon - backed away, before turning to walk to the window and gaze outside, giving him space to sort out his thoughts. In the window, she could see his reflection, could see him standing there with a hand buried in his hair, staring up at the ceiling. His lips were moving silently - self-directed cursing, she guessed - then his chest heaved in a huge, gusty sigh, his soft words only just reaching her.

“I’m sorry, Billie.”

She turned around, looking at the strained lines on his face, then he gave what was clearly a forced smile.

“I’m sorry, darlin’. That was out of line. I really didn’t mean to say it, though.”

“No?” Billie tilted her head as she looked at him, that tiny gesture he remembered so well.

“No. Truly, no.” Jon spread his hands out helplessly. “Can we just make believe I never even said it?”

“That depends.” Billie replied, relief flooding her that he’d dropped it so quickly and easily. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but neither did she want to rekindle those long-dead embers. So, as usual, she took refuge in humor. “Depends whether you can get your foot out of your mouth again.”

Jon chuckled. Thank God she’s being cool about this. The last thing I want is to lose Jay again, now that I’ve found him. “I think I can just about manage that.”

“Well, okay then.”

Billie walked across the studio again, toward a battered couch that had quite clearly seen better days. Better years, really. Jon watched her for a second, then a grin spread across his face.

“Take a seat, cowgirl, and I’ll play some for ya.” He smirked. “That’s if you want me to.”

“Well, duh!” Billie rolled her eyes, settling onto the couch. “Okay, rockstar - play for me!”

Grinning again, Jon picked up his favorite old Takemine from a stand, hooking a stool across and perching on it to face Billie. His first instinct was to play Dry County for her, but something told him that wasn’t the smart thing to do right now. Later, perhaps, but not right now. So, instead, he started to strum a familiar melody before starting on the lyric, seeing Billie smile as she recognised the opening of the song.

“Sitting here, just watching you sleep………..”


It was late night - or maybe early morning - now, and Jon was back in the studio. Alone this time, as Billie was asleep in one of the guest bedrooms, though she’d politely refused the Sambora Suite, stating quietly that it was too much Richie’s personal space and that she’d not feel comfortable sleeping there, among his possessions and memories. Antsy and unable to settle, even after the emotional rollercoaster of the day, Jon had forsaken his own bed for the familiar comfort of the battered studio couch, his only companions a notepad and mug of tar-black coffee. He started out making a list of mundane ‘things to do’, but quickly turned to the thing that could calm him more than anything - writing music.

He’d been idly scribbling lyrics - knowing they sucked and would never make it past the page, but writing them down nonetheless - when an idea hit him, and he stopped, staring blindly at the paper for a minute. A germ of inspiration, one of those things he could never explain when people asked the usual ‘so how do you write songs?’ - truth be told, he didn’t totally understand it himself. Sure, sometimes he - or he and Richie - would work and toil at a song, slowly hammering a rough idea into something workable and, more importantly, marketable. But sometimes it just ‘happened’. Like with Wanted - he’d told the story often enough of how he’d taken just a basic idea over to Richie’s house - or rather, Richie’s mom’s house - and by the end of the afternoon they had the song completely written, finished and ready to record. Same with Dry County, as he remembered - and he should remember, given that he’d finally played it for Billie earlier in the day, both of them enjoying the shared memory of how and when the song had been written. This was feeling like one of those. One of those rare, precious, and extremely welcome flashes of - well, genius seemed so egotistical…..but maybe it was accurate, too.

Jon snorted at his own thoughts. Yeah, well, genius - maybe you should get it down on paper before it flies out of your brain! Even if you’re back to your natural color, you’ve been acting damned blond lately. Swallowing the dregs of his coffee, he leaned over a fresh page of the pad, letting the words flow naturally as he started to write.


Nine weeks had now passed since that evening in Jersey, when Jon had blurted out his sudden feelings to Billie, been rebuffed and rebounded to write the first track of the new album. Nine weeks when Nick Fabian had been formally charged and arraigned for his various crimes against both Billie and Kirsten, the young ex-Soulmate. In that same comparatively short period of time Fabian had been brought to court for the preliminary hearing in the case and, in a show of bravery and solidarity, he’d walked into court to see not only Billie and Kirsten, but also Jay, Kadie, Jon and Richie. Flanking the group were Detective Kellogg and her partner, and even Fabian’s unbelievable arrogance was shaken by the eight stony faces glaring at him. Of course, it didn’t increase his confidence in the least that he was wearing a badly fitting suit and garish tie - somehow when he’d asked his wife to send his favorite charcoal gray Armani suit, she’d managed to accidentally pack up his oldest, worst fitting one instead.

In those same nine weeks Jon and Richie - with the rest of the band - had started recording some new songs, with Billie occasionally dropping by the studio to listen in, usually bringing cookies or some other sweet treat to tempt them. Not that they took a lot of tempting of course - these were guys who’d spent long enough on the road, living on stale pizza and warm beer, to truly appreciate anything homemade. And these were homemade, since Billie had moved from her hotel into Richie’s apartment. On a purely platonic, room-mate basis.

For now, at least.

If nothing else, being close to a familiar male presence made Billie feel safe, when she’d experience an unexpected flare-up of the slowly lessening nightmares. Over the last few weeks she’d learned that Mr Richard Steven Sambora was a great giver-of-reassuring-hugs and made a pretty good target for unwelcome tears. She was starting to see him as something more, though. Starting to see him as more than ‘just a friend’. Starting to see him in a way she hadn’t expected to see him, considering who he was and the circumstances of their meeting.

She was starting to want him.